The Matron's Favoured Son
by WareTheVenom
Summary: Ten years after Waterdeep's plight, Nathyrra writes to Sharwyn and the former Hero, begging them for aid. Back in the Underdark, an old foe and familiar ground remind them of all that passed before. How Mae'rillar Kilath, son of the Valsharess, was an unlikely hero for Waterdeep but a chance meeting with the Seer set it all in motion. Sharwyn/Valen, OC/Seer
1. Prelude

Quick A/N:

Welcome! For those of you who have read my other NWN fic, Dancing with Shadows: hello again; Mae'rillar might look familiar to you.

Although my Hero of the Underdark is also featured (as a cameo really) in my other story, you don't need to have read Dancing with Shadows to understand this fic. We do, however, begin with a brief overlap where Mae'rillar is called away from a minor role at Crossroad Keep back to the Underdark by a suspicious letter, ten years after the events of HotU. And what follows will remind Mae'rillar and Sharwyn of the events of Hordes of the Underdark, the primary narrative of this fic (with a few twists, naturally ;) ).

This has been slightly augmented (prelude, clearer marking of years etc.) since its original posting.

Reviews are greatly appreciated (especially in an old threat like this) and always make my day. :3

* * *

><p><strong>Crossroad Keep, Eastern Neverwintan Lands,<strong>

**The Frozen North**

**1375 DR, Year of Risen Elfkin**

**Hammer 'Deepwinter'**

_ …she asks for you every day. Please come to us, Brother. Our Lady does not have long left, and I know in your heart you will regret this if you do not see her at the last. She says she sees a dark shadow waiting for you in your future if you do not come to us, and there is a red hunger closer at hand, torn asunder long ago and now slowly reforming, an evil as ancient and dangerous as the shadow it fights. We beg you, come to the Seer before she dies. Do you not still love her as you once did? We wait in the Promenade of the Dark Maiden. You know the way. She smiles as I write…she knows you will heed me. _

The letter weighed like a stone in Mae'rillar's hands as he watched Neeshka and her companions riding back in through the gates. From this distance he could see her relief clearly, even through the misty window of their house's bedroom in the keep's main bailey with the glaring sunlight burning at his sensitive eyes; something about the set of her shoulders, the flick of her tail, the lightness of her footsteps as she dismounted. His lover of the past year or so did at least have some form of grudging friendship with Qara – both were young, though the Tiefling rarely showed it these days – but it was not a surprise to see Neeshka looking so tired of the company she had been keeping. It made the Drow feel even more guilty that he would not be able to stay and keep her company. He would be abandoning her to them again without Isaviel to cheer her, for their Knight-Captain (Neeshka's closest friend) would be gone for maybe another tenday more, and who knew the horrors of war that would come in her wake.

"I have no choice," he sighed softly.

Crumpling the letter in his fist he turned away from the sight of his returning lover before she inevitably looked for him standing at that window. The letter had been waiting on his table the night before, and as soon as he had seen it he had understood that he really had no choice. There was no way that Nathyrra would have dared to contact him, not after everything. She had told him that their Seer had been attacked in a Drow raid near the holiest of Eilistraee's temples. Though he had not learned Nathyrra's methods of weaving the truth behind spoken almost-truths like Sharwyn had, he could tell there was something…else going on here. The Seer must have been injured, or threatened severely. For such blasphemy to occur at the Promenade of the Dark Maiden itself, the enclave of Eilistraee's order… The thought of it made the exiled Drow warrior shake with rage, and once he had read through Nathyrra's words another time he had known that he could not let it stand. He had to go.

Mae'rillar did not allow himself to look back. Pulling his pack on over his cloak, he covered his head with his deep hood. He had expected to be leaving for Neverwinter, not Waterdeep, but the information the Guild had sent him no longer seemed so important. Neeshka would have to find someone else to deal with the problem. Past love called him elsewhere. So instead he would be returning to the City of Splendours after more than ten years away. And it had been even longer since he had needed to pass through Skullport. A master of stealth, trained in the treacherous Underdark, where one wrong movement and one audible step could result in swift death he knew how best to leave unobserved.

He strode to the back door quickly, intending to head straight for the northern wall, where he could climb over the edge easily unnoticed and it would take only a little more effort to get below the overhanging ridge of the cliff there to climb to the ground. The Drow weapon master knew that if he told Neeshka his reasons for leaving and why he would not be returning any time soon, she would be angry and unhappy…and she would also try to go with him or to stop him. Neither option was one he would take.

With a shake of his head Mae'rillar opened the back door of the house he had shared with his Tiefling companion and stepped out into the bright white glare of the snowy Frozen North. At least he would not have to suffer the cold or the sunlight for much longer. Not for some time, anyway.

"Forgive me, sweet Neeshka," he whispered into the howling wind, wrapping his dark cloak about him and stepping away into the snow.

* * *

><p><strong>Tower of the Hero's Troupe,<strong>

**Sigil, **

**1375 DR, Year of Risen Elfkin**

**Hammer 'Deepwinter'**

The letter fluttered to the ground unnoticed from Sharwyn's suddenly limp fingertips. The Seer mortally wounded? Nathyrra, begging for help? The Drow mage had promised in her note that she had sent a copy to Mae'rillar and Valen as well. The old friends…the ones who had shared the horrors of Cania and played a part in that glorious victory for Waterdeep; a glory she, Sharwyn, dedicated bard and scholar of heart-rousing propaganda, had helped to instil _afterwards_ upon the story.

"Gods, I don't believe this," she sighed aloud. After everything she had endured, after all that toil and stress and the effort she had exerted afterwards into making the tale seem so tamely heroic, she had surely earned a time of peace?

Her lips trembled with momentary indecision as her eyes drifted across the lavish room, draped in fine silks from across the Planescape, tapestries pinned to the wall depicting battles and other heroic scenes through history. Even her marbled table bore upon its surface a wondrous white light gem reportedly brought all the way from Celestia in the Upper Planes. She had come up here into her study to perform a final read-through of her newly bound novel, the one into which she had poured the truth, all of the truth and only the truth. No propaganda. No overdone valour.

She had stepped through the archway, upon the first of the thick, lavish rugs, revelling in the cheerful light created from the enchanted 'skylight' set in the painted roof to give the illusion of a real sun up above, sending a warm glow throughout the little domed work room, given a multi-hued radiance in this place of hanging kaleidoscopic draperies. The window beyond the desk belied the truth of the city outside, where no sun did shine, nor night ever fall. Were one to look up into the 'sky' they would see just what they saw all around them; the never-ending grey and red and blue and pink and burnt orange of Sigil, the ring shaped City of Doors.

Bustling, labyrinthine, loud and full of heady scents both awful and wonderful, teeming with all the languages of the planes from Celestial to Infernal and everything in between with every race of creatures one could conceive of, all living in enforced peace in this place, the crossroads between the Planes. Sharwyn loved Sigil for all of this, and for its automatic tolerance of every creature whether good or bad, and its admittance of any belief and history, so long as the peace was kept and no worship was held. It was her escape from her birthplace, the Prime Material Plane, and in its gentle heat and the unconquerable enthusiastic bustle it perpetuated she could find solace from the lingering memories of dreadful Cania.

Now Nathyrra was telling her that the Seer had been attacked and she must return to the Prime Material Plane, to the Underdark no less, and meet Mae'rillar in Skullport before heading to the Promenade of the Dark Maiden to say final farewells to their former mistress? Only, Sharwyn understood Nathyrra's code, and the underlying hint that something was not quite as it seemed was clear: that the Seer probably wasn't mortally wounded at all, but something was very wrong and the former Rebels needed her help.

"Oh to the Hells with it all, what choice do I have?" the bard cried at last, fairly stamping her foot with the frustration of it. She could not very well leave Nathyrra alone, could she?

It would be…strange seeing Mae'rillar again after not a hint of contact over the last few years (she hardly blamed him; the outcome of events had been least favourable for him, their 'hero' after all). It would be better to meet him in Skullport first, before Valen met them further on. A little strand of dread ran through her at the thought, though it would be heavenly to see her Tiefling again after too long.

Well. The theatre troop would just have to look after itself for a…while. Maybe several Prime Material months, even. Come to think of it, maybe it was time to don her armour, sharpen her blade and check through her little spellbook again. Maybe she had missed adventure, after all. She could drop off her finished novel at The Yawning Portal on the way. Now, where was her portal key to Waterdeep…


	2. A Day in Skullport

**Skullport,**

**Undermountain-Underdark Border**

**1375 DR, Year of Risen Elfkin,**

**Alturiak 'The Claw of Winter'**

Years had passed since Mae'rillar had been to Skullport, and he could hardly admit to missing the place. It was reviled as a well of evil by the folk of Waterdeep, the mighty surface city hundreds of feet above, and not without good cause. Skullport was full of nefarious intent; that was for certain. Its inhabitants were populated by a villainous majority, heralding from both the surface world – Faerûn – and the Underdark, but everyone in this place had more than ill-intent in common.

Everyone who lived in Skullport had something to hide, or someone to hide from – probably both. Escaped Drow slaves – Orcs and humans, mostly – who had never seen the sun, raised entirely in the Underdark cities of Menzoberranzan, Ched Nasad and the like were a common sight. With nowhere to go in the surface world they found work where they could or begged on the filthy, dimly lit streets. Theft, brawling and murder were hardly rare here, and the executions were regular affairs. The burly Orc militia, serving under a set of suspiciously ancient ruling wizards, were cruel and corrupt, and Mae'rillar knew to stay out of their way. He no longer had a House to protect him.

Among the other denizens of Skullport, wizards of dubious origins were hardly rare, setting up alchemical or divinatory establishments to prey on the needs of others…or even necromantic practises, to prey on the gullibility of those who were less fortunate than they. These were Red Wizards of Thay or Zhentarim who had made too many enemies in their infamous homelands, or possibly scholars of the more sinister arts of wizardry from the goodly realms which could not stomach such things. Magic was an integral part of Skullport, and as such the city was a natural haven for the less reputable classes of wizard. After all, this place had been founded by exiled Netherese mages. The ghostly green skulls their warding magic had left behind had also left the city with its name –as well as the good fortune to be well protected against the magical searching of any would-be pursuers of those who hid within.

Skullport stood in the lowest reaches of the complex known as Undermountain, a complex owned and controlled, with the exception of the city, by its insane creator, the archmage Halaster Greycloak, and it was with him that those centuries-dead wizards had bargained to found the city. Mae'rillar shuddered at the memory of his brief excursions into the upper parts of Undermountain. An underground labyrinth built with the express purpose of challenging adventurers who hoped to gain fame and wealth from surviving its many tests and fearsome, monstrous guardians, it was inherently a place for bad memories. He had survived, of course, but then again he had also been born into a dangerously ambitious lower house of Menzoberranzan and brought up under the vicious and singularly heartless society of the Drow.

Luckily, flitting through its narrow witchlight-lit streets with silent purpose, Mae'rillar did not need Skullport to be a place of goodness, nor did he need to it to be welcoming. All he needed was to meet his contact, and maybe a bed for the night and some longed for Drow wine. He had already witnessed a handful of his own kind on his path through Skullport, but each of them had been alone and without any house insignias. They were clearly renegades like him, and they averted their eyes from his and slipped away into the shadows when he saw them. Such lost souls, cruel and untrustworthy as he had to assume that they were, could not be expected foes, as bad as the memories they triggered inevitably were.

Nearing his destination, Mae'rillar had been forced to cross through the vast market square close to the docks. By the time he left the press of the streets, as the bells tolled that it was the beginning of the third quarter of a Skullport day, he realised he had likely witnessed almost every race common to Faerûn and just as many of the Underdark.

Gnolls sold stinking, lice-infested animal skins on the roadside, necromancers ferried carts of dead bodies over the cobbles, Orcs brawled outside taverns or tried to sell wares in the markets while Underdark-paled humans, ragged Gnomes and Halflings begged for food or flitted through the crowds, lifting purses and disappearing into the gloom. Sprites, faeries, even imps and mephits, whizzed in the still, cool air above the heads of those travelling the streets, stealing out of cruel enjoyment or hurrying past on errands for their masters. At one point, not far from the establishment he sought, Mae'rillar had even espied a red-robed wizard leading a Pit Fiend onto a heavily warded barge, probably bound for some distant holdfast of malignant power. An ogre-sized devil wreathed in flame and chained with fearsomely strong magic, it had turned his thoughts back to certain unwanted, wrathful memories, of an eon of cold and constant fear. _Cania, the Eighth – you will never forget._

At last the seasoned Drow warrior had reached his goal, tired of the stink and bustle of the city, and pushed through a heavy, groaning wooden door into a Goddess-blessedly dark tavern hall. The bartender, an impressively-tusked burly half-Orc, gave a grunt his way and gestured brusquely to an empty table. Ignoring the unfriendly glares of a trio of drunken Duergar by the bar, Mae'rillar ducked into his allocated seat and sat back, his arms resting with deceptive relaxation along the arms of his chair. Just a flick of his wrists and his longswords would be in his hands.

While the bartender ambled towards him, the Drow warrior surveyed the scene; five large, porcine-faced Orcs hunched around a table across the room playing a game of dice…and gods knew what the stakes might be. The Duergar were still staring at him, and he smirked at them. They were armed with poorly forged weaponry and even worse chainmail, not to mention the fog of strong drink, and were no threat to him – even if they did not realise it yet. He could hardly blame them for their hatred, even if he had no pity left in his heart for them; they were probably escaped Drow slaves. His Dark Elf kindred had a particular shared hatred with Duergar, the Grey Dwarves, and he represented uncountable horrors for them, Drow as he was.

A group of Halflings and Deep Gnomes, almost certainly a part of the city's extensive Thieves' Guild, sat around a number of other tables, drinking and eating prodigiously. Though they looked harmless enough, he knew to watch his purse and his backpack. And he did not doubt their meeting was one for scheming, not just for gorging themselves.

He had already observed as he stepped into his chair that a hooded creature sat in the corner nearby, enveloped in a deep-hooded velvet cloak, and the flicker of purplish tentacles from within that cowl told him all he needed to know; that patron was an Illithid, a 'Mind-Flayer', and he knew well to be on his guard. Such monsters were often egotistical and intellectually vain, as well as cruel and calculating…but their self-confidence was oft well placed. He would need to be careful once his contact arrived. He hoped she would be as glad to see him as he would be to see her. He had missed her ready laugh and dark, knowing eyes.

Placing his order for a bed to stay just one night, as well as for the best soup the inn provided and a glass of that Drow wine he had not tasted in too long, Mae'rillar's gaze shifted to the old, barred up door that stood so out of place at the foot of the stairs. He remembered all too well what lay that way, though in those years passed when he had been to the yard beyond the door he had known nothing of this inn. Sighing, he let his thoughts drift back to another time he had needed to spend a day and night in Skullport.

* * *

><p><strong>Skullport<strong>

**Undermountain-Underdark Border**

**1362 DR, Year of the Helm,**

**Eleasis 'Highsun'**

Matron Kilath had always liked to remind the young Mae'rillar that Skullport was to the Underdark what Sigil was to the Planescape; a place to link all others, and a hub of information. It did not need to be pleasant or even particularly bearable; as all things must for the Drow it would _serve_. Still, this latest mission to Skullport had an air of mystery that was particularly distasteful. Whenever Mae'rillar had been sent by his mother to this place in the past it had always been under the leadership of one of his sisters.

Now, Kirthel waited at a camp hidden in a narrow passageway just across the water from the city and _he_ had been sent as leader of a mistrustful group of other male Drow. Ordinarily he would have been more than relieved to be free of his youngest sister's penchant for ready brutality, but could not understand his mother's thinking. He could not help but suspect that there was something awry. Ordinarily there was only one reason why Matron Kilath would send him in the stead of his sister, and that was because he was male and in the eyes of a Lolth-worshipping priestess such as his mother he was far more expendable than one of his devout sisters.

With the perpetual blue radiance of the witchlights along the streets burning his eyes and a group of hooded, cloaked and armoured Drow soldiers at his back, Mae'rillar was decidedly uneasy, especially here in Skullport. Give him the darkness of his homeland, the Underdark, and its endlessly twisting tunnels, and he would have – ironically, perhaps – felt far safer. It did not help that Matron Kilath's orders had been simultaneously painfully specific and pointedly vague. He was to meet a certain man in an abandoned yard by the docks when the bells tolled the third quarter of a Skullport day. She had told him little else, except that he was to hand over a heavy purse of gems and gold for…an item.

It irked the young Drow warrior that his mother had failed to inform him of what it was he would be collecting, but her expression had been typically hard when she had recognised his curiosity. With the threat of that snake-headed whip she carried ever by her side, he had been forced simply to bow his head and do as commanded. It irked him even more that his younger sister Kirthel, waiting at camp across the water, had given him a particularly gloating look as she had sent him off. He longed to see that self-satisfied smirk wiped from her pinched face.

"Here," the Orc guide grunted as the group of cloaked Drow rounded a corner to face a large iron door set in a mouldy mud-and-brick wall. The rancid porcine creature reached out a grey, tough-skinned hand and Mae'rillar pressed a few coppers into its hairy palm, careful that his own leather clad digits did not come into contact with its lice-ridden skin.

The Drow warrior was already moving for the door when he heard his comrades sniggering. He turned in time to see one of the younger males threatening the Orc with the glimmering blade of his longsword. Mae'rillar shot him a hard look, gesturing for the door as his comrade loosed in his grip on the guide, allowing him to dart away into the labyrinthine backstreets.

"_A waste of copper, if you ask me," _the reckless soldier complained, using the silent signing language of the Drow, a method of communication based around complex hand signals and facial expressions devised especially for such clandestine manoeuvers, "_Better to cut its throat and be done with it. The slave was impudent to demand payment from Drow."_

_ "He is no slave here," _Mae'rillar reminded, setting his expression as he signed to best show his irritation, "_His absence may have been missed. We come here cloaked and hooded for a reason."_

_"All the better to deal with it properly. None would have known it was a group of Drow who passed this way…"_

_ "No. Your actions would betray your nature. Our 'disguise' merely buys us time to acquire what we need and return to camp."_

_ "…Commander," _the soldier acquiesced, nodding his head in a show of deference, but his pause and the murderous look in his red eyes showed a different mind-set. It suggested that Mae'rillar watch his back…as if he had not been doing so already.

For his part, the senior Drow just sneered and pointedly turned about, checking the door before him for traps before stepping through. Mae'rillar had bested every one of those who followed him a hundred times or more in training, and they knew better than to turn on him over an Orc. He may have been Matron Kilath's child, but he was also a male, and as such no amount of good standing would ever come to him automatically. He had earned his place here.

Still, he could fairly sense the silent scheming signals going on behind his back as they followed him into a foul-smelling yard full of barrels of rotting fish and surface-world vegetables. Across the ground a boat bobbed gently as if just moored in the narrow channel of water which had once no doubt been used to supply the shop whose back door now stood rusted shut.

"You come on behalf of Matron Kilath," a deep, flat voice intoned, and as one the group of Drow bristled, unsheathing swords and cocking miniature crossbows all in eerie silence unique to their stealthy race.

His own twin longswords already firmly in his hands, Mae'rillar looked about himself anxiously for a moment before his eyes settled upon the cloak-shrouded figure standing by the barrels a few strides away from the boat. He had to admit that it unsettled him to be taken so unawares; the yard was dark without any of those wretched witchlights, and it had only taken his eyes a second or two to adjust. Infravision was the favoured sight of the darkness-dwelling Drow; he should have been able to see his addressor immediately.

"We do," Mae'rillar replied at last, sheathing his blades and approaching cautiously until the cloaked figure before him held out one gloved hand. The gesture irritated him, and he pulled up short, glaring at the dark void within the unknown creature's hood, "You will receive no payment until I see what it is that I am to take in return," he denied, and when the figure before him shifted in response, he caught the briefest glimpse of a pair of leathery wings beneath the black cloak.

"This is the item your Matron requires," the creature told him, still as toneless as before, unconcernedly handing over a small golden medallion.

The bauble settled heavily in Mae'rillar's palm, fizzing with some unknown enchantment and stamped with an obscure ruby-dusted symbol. Staring at it, with his other hand closing around the bag of gold at his belt, it crossed Mae'rillar's mind that he could simply escape with the treasure and the medallion. His mother would never need to know that he had failed to pay the creature before him. A glance back around at his companions would have told him that they were thinking similar thoughts…but this winged figure before him was clearly no ordinary man. Mae'rillar had sensed strong magic at work since first he stepped into this reeking, boarded up yard.

With a sigh, the Drow warrior unhooked the gem bag from his belt and extended it towards the creature. Unexpectedly, the winged figure's hand closed around his wrist instead of the bag, lightning fast and strong as a vice, and a long, serrated knife materialised in his other hand. Cursing, Mae'rillar attempted to pull back, fumbling with the medallion in an attempt to unsheathe his sword, only to realise that the enchanted trinket would not budge from his palm no matter how hard he shook it. In these precious moments he head the whizz of miniature crossbow bolts and saw them bounce back from his attacker as if from a stone wall. He heard the soft ring of steel behind him, but no one moved to his aid.

"What is this treachery?" he demanded, not sure if he was speaking to his comrades or his aggressor, giving himself a moment to stall the creature so that he might right himself and lash out with a fist or boot. But his amber eyes were met with darkness, and in that void there dwelled some unknown magic which drifted into his sight and held him frozen, powerless as the figure pushed back Mae'rillar's sleeve.

"It is not gold that I require, but something of the flesh. I bear you no ill will, Mae'rillar Kilath, and you may thank me in time."

That hardly seemed likely as the serrated blade cut into his ebon-skinned forearm and he was powerless even to scream as he watched the creature before him pull free a chunk of his skin, blood welling up in a hot rush while his 'allies' turned and fled behind him. At that moment of betrayal his attacker dipped his head, breaking the spell of physical control, and Mae'rillar at last cried out, automatically reaching for the long, curved handle of the knife in the creature's hand even with the medallion still clinging to his own palm.

As soon as his fingertips touched the bone hilt, there followed a crackling burst of magic and the ground shifted beneath Mae'rillar's feet, throwing him momentarily into a dark vortex. A moment later he landed in a crouch, panting and light-headed, at last shaking free the maliciously enchanted medallion into a pouch on his belt and unsheathing his blade. Turning all about himself he saw that he had somehow been translated through space, the witchlights along the walls of the ramshackle houses ahead and the jagged rock roof far above him proving that he was at least yet in Skullport. He stood in a simple narrow backalley, deserted but for a single rotting rat, the uneven stone ground piled high with stinking rubbish.

Breathing deeply despite the foul smell, Mae'rillar dared a look at his injured arm. It blazed with pain, his blood flowing freely over his skin and pooling into his glove. Hissing half in pain and half in rage, he sheathed his blade and paused a moment to bind the ugly wound. He was just tying the last knot in his bandage and considering the swiftest way back to camp when he heard the ring of steel just out of sight.

In the months to come, Mae'rillar would never understand why he followed those sounds of battle. Perhaps he was already on edge after the strange, disorientating confrontation by the docks and needed a way to vent his rage, or perhaps he just wanted to imagine the look of outrage on Kirthel's face if she were to learn that he did not come scurrying straight back to camp. Either way, he turned the corner of the street and laid amber-eyed sight upon two particularly hulking half-Orc brutes artlessly bringing their identical war-axes to bear against a pair of lightly clad Drow priestesses. It looked like the brutes had taken them by surprise, waylaying some kind of trading cart which lay torn from its wheels nearby. Whatever creatures had been pulling the vehicle were already fled, and the scuffle had caused a group of passing human youths to stop and stare at the far end of the alleyway where it joined with a loud, bustling thoroughfare.

It took Mae'rillar only a few moments to take in what was wrong with this scene. The Orcs were clad in Drow piwafwi cloaks and expensive, matching armour, which meant some Dark Elf faction had sent them on this mission. This in itself was not unusual, but sending a pair of half-Orc slaves against two Drow priestesses was not only insulting – perhaps the intention – but also rather foolhardy. Naturally, Drow trained themselves more thoroughly than they did their slaves.

To add to the confusion of the scene, the priestesses were not adorned in the garb of any House Mae'rillar knew – and he was schooled in the law of all of the noble Houses of Menzoberranzan and Ched Nasad. Nor did they bear the symbols of Lolth, but instead the insignia of a different deity altogether, one whose silver horn and crescent moon they wore around their necks and stamped upon their shields. Both wore bows strapped to their backs, along with a quiver of arrows, after the fashion of the surface world hunters, and their garb was silver-threaded grey cloth and shimmering chainmail. With such attire, their long white hair pulled back into simple, practical tails, they were almost as uniform as the half-Orcs they faced.

Most strikingly of all, Mae'rillar saw that there crouched a rag-clad human boy beneath the upturned cart, cowering away from the fight behind the protective stances of the two priestesses. His large brown eyes were swimming with tears when he saw Mae'rillar step into the alley, meeting the warrior's gaze with a look of fear that was instantly chased away by innocent hope. The Drow male was momentarily at a loss. He had never seen Drow priestesses protect any child like that, and certainly never would have imagined a human boy might be given such favour.

In spite of the pity that welled in his heart unexpectedly to see the hope and the fear warring on that little boy's face, Mae'rillar never had to find out if his capacity for heroism stretched to such a situation, for one of the half-Orcs had seen him and the twin longswords he grasped. In truth, his left arm was all but useless even with its bandage, and it throbbed hotly with unhappily distracting pain, but he hefted his blades in warning, matching the creature's glare as it shoved away the priestess it faced and made for him. He met the half-Orc's clumsy swing with a well-timed dodge, scoring a long cut along his attacker's calf as he span around to face the half-Orc again. The priestess had clearly – and expectedly – weighed her allegiances and her priorities and turned to help her compatriot, barely giving Mae'rillar a second glance. He might have sighed at that, had he not been distracted by the large, armoured half-Orc rushing him with another broad swing of his waraxe.

Again Mae'rillar skipped out of reach, this time drawing a thin line of blood and a wrathful bellow from his foe. Not so porcine or bristle-covered as a full-blooded Orc, the brute was still remarkable ugly with an unhealthy grey tinge to his skin and numerous scars over his deeply lined cheeks, not to mention the two small tusks jutting from his prognathic lower jaw, distorting his mouth. His heavy brows hung over tiny black eyes, and his head looked to be balding and covered in sores. He was definitely a slave to some Drow House somewhere…but which house?

In the end it was the fall of the half-Orc's comrade that provided the split-second distraction Mae'rillar needed to run his enemy through. The Drow warrior was tired, pained and still more than a little confused and disorientated. As the slave fell choking on prodigious bouts of blood, he spared a moment to regret that he had not made a cleaner kill. But a moment was all he had, for in the next he felt the cool sting of a tiny Drow dagger at his throat, and non-too-gentle hands pushing him behind the cart, out of sight of the onlookers who had already begun to disperse with the end of the fight.

"Who are you? Where do you come from?" the priestess with her dagger at his throat demanded, her red eyes narrowed distrustfully, gleaming against her ebon skin in the half-light.

"I could ask you the same thing."

"We have your life in our hands, impudent m-," the priestess began, only to have her outburst quelled by a hard look from the other, calmer female. Mae'rillar made a point of meeting her eyes instead, raising his hands with their palms outwards in a gesture of peace.

"I just saved your lives, against my better judgement," he pointed out, "And the child's."

Hearing himself mentioned, the boy darted out from under the cart and wrapped his arms around the less aggressive of the two priestesses, who placed a protective hand on his shoulder and gave Mae'rillar a distrustful stare.

"You bring up a fair point," she noted, her voice soft and yet somehow still ringing with threat in a way only the Drow language could convey, "Why would you help us? How do I know you were not here to win us over before finishing the expendable slaves' job?"

"You cannot know that," Mae'rillar could not keep the frustration from his tone, and the priestess with her dagger at his throat gave the blade a little push, making him hiss in pain, "But I think I have proven to you that a simple dagger to my neck would not be the end of me – and no matter what you fear...I did just save you and your ward."

Doubt flickered across the calmer priestess's angular face, but she waved her comrade back, stepping out of reach as well with the boy still clinging to her leg.

"You speak truly," she admitted at last, her eyes falling to the two dead half-Orcs for a moment before looking back to Mae'rillar, "You will come with us. Our mistress can decide your fate."

The determination in her eyes showed to Mae'rillar that the struggle to escape would probably be one he could not win, especially not with an injured arm. He would have to hope that he could escape later, or broker his release. Perhaps he would be held to ransom for his House to buy him back…and he truly wondered what Matron Kilath would pay for his return. No matter the outcome, it pleased him that he would definitely be keeping Kirthel waiting all the same.

* * *

><p><strong>Skullport,<strong>

**Undermountain-Underdark Border**

**1375 DR, Year of Risen Elfkin,**

**Alturiak 'The Claw of Winter'**

Mae'rillar had begun to doubt whether or not his 'contact' would appear at all; his wine was drunk and his food all but gone when he heard the creak of the door behind him and the tell-tale scrape of boots over the smooth stone floor. He did not turn to face the newcomer, but saw the momentary look of surprise on the barkeeper's face.

A smile tugged at the corners of Mae'rillar's mouth, threatening to break his pretence of obliviousness. It was fun to play these games with old friends, but it was also a precaution – should those Duergar take it into their heads to follow him out of the inn in the morning, or that Illithid behind him prove to be some kind of spy for the one he sought, a feigned lack of interest might just save his old friend's life. For the purposes of the evening, she was his 'contact', but in truth she was a dear friend of years passed.

"Playing hard to get as always, are we?" the voice that mocked him in the Common Tongue was unmistakably carrying the accent of a noble-born surface-world human, and as Mae'rillar looked up in deliberate nonchalance his view was temporarily obscured by the large backpack that thumped onto the table between them.

"It makes the time pass swifter while I wait for you," the Drow warrior pushed aside the bag as the woman before him sat down with a graceful twist into the chair opposite. He tried not to catch his breath too obviously at the sight of her – not for his own sake, because she knew what effect she had on observers to her beauty, but again for her sake, "You always were late, Sharwyn." A quick glance across the room showed that the Duergar were, by the Maiden, looking _very _interested.

"It ensures I need not pass any time in waiting for _you_," she retaliated, arching a delicate, expressive eyebrow at him as his eyes settled upon her again.

She was dressed for the road, with a practical leather jerkin over finer cloth, and her dark cloak was worn with use. Still, even beneath all that plain attire he knew she hated, she carried herself like a woman who intended to _use _how people stared at her. Woe to those who mistook her, however, for she knew well how to use that longsword on her hip.

"You have come a long distance, I see," Mae'rillar noted softly, nodding to her state of dress, and the woman shrugged, a movement that allowed her long, lustrous brown hair to settle fluidly over her shoulder, catching the light just so. He grinned at her for her lack of subtlety and she had the grace to look a little bashful.

"No further than you, I don't doubt," Sharwyn shrugged again, more naturally this time, pulling free her simple little hand-harp and placing it flat on the table between them, holding his gaze with her own dark eyes as she strummed a simple little tune as if absent-mindedly toying with the instrument. In fact, her action brought Mae'rillar much relief, for he sensed the shimmer of magic in the air around them and knew she had summoned some kind of magical enchantment to distract those in the room with them from their real conversation.

"I assume we may discuss our….mutual summons…frankly now?"

"Of course," she gave him her most honest smile, shapely lips curving and lighting up her lovely eyes. _If only it could have been us, old friend_. She reached across the table then, placing one long-fingered hand upon his gloved one and squeezing gently, "I had a letter from Nathyrra as well, that's why I agreed to meet you here. Do you think it's for real? Has our lady really been attacked so brazenly?"

"It seems unlikely," Mae'rillar admitted, "But I fear at least something of what we have been told is true. Nathyrra would not pull us from our lives now if it were not for a good cause."

"You fear Meph-" Sharwyn paused, catching her words just in time, "That he has found a way to seek vengeance?"

"Possibly," Mae'rillar sighed, pulling his hand free and leaning back in his chair. If it were not for the message Nathyrra had sent, dragging him from northern climes in fear for the lost love of his life, he suspected he would have been gladder to see Sharwyn, "Where the Seer is concerned, you know I have a certain…lack of clarity. We must discover the truth, and soon."

"We should start by finding Nathyrra," Sharwyn nodded, a little too quickly, and when she caught Mae'rillar's expression she stopped and looked away guiltily. The unspoken question between them would have to wait.

"Nathyrra can look after herself…for now," the Drow corrected, perhaps a little too sharply, "We must head for the Promenade of the Dark Maiden and ascertain the truth. I suspect the Seer does not lie on her deathbed there, no matter what we have been told. One thing you must remember about the Underdark is that the layers of truth and lies are always intertwined. No truth is spoken without falsehood, Sharwyn. We must untangle it."

One thing was for certain: his Seer would never have been ambushed unawares by unknown attackers. _But she might have let it happen_, the fear of the truth gnawed at him, _with the right motivations._


	3. A Night in Skullport

**Somewhere near Skullport,**

**Undermountain-Underdark Border**

**1362 DR, Year of the Helm,**

**Eleasis 'Highsun'**

The two Drow priestesses, still with the little boy matching pace breathlessly between them, had led Mae'rillar only as far as one alleyway, heading for the north-eastern end of Skullport, when they insisted upon blindfolding him. Threatened by two well-armed clerics of a god he did not know, he had hardly been in a position to make demands, especially with the ever-worsening pain in his injured arm. It was hardly an ideal situation, leagues from Menzoberranzan and the relative safety of House Kilath, walking blind through the streets of Skullport with nothing but the vice-like grip of one of his captors to guide him to his unknown destination. Still, he was a Drow warrior, not newly graduated from his time in Menzoberranzan's martial academy, Melee Magthere. He could still fight blind, even if he could not find his way home. His trepidation came from the mystery that awaited him at the end of their journey.

He berated himself for getting caught up in that fight, for being drawn in by a moment of weakness. Amongst it all he might have even begun to forget about the strange encounter at the docks, but for the endless throbbing in his arm and the blood congealing in his glove. He wondered what had become of his soldiers, and if they had run straight back to Kirthel. They could not rightly present themselves without their commander, the medallion they had travelled all that way to procure or the gem bag he still wore on his belt, could they? After the necromancy they had witnessed at Mae'rillar's expense, perhaps they would be willing to take that risk – they probably presumed him dead. Drow allies had a tendency to aim for the more hopeless outcome regarding missing compatriots.

The way his captors led him was convoluted and disorientating; twice he heard the loud rattle of carts on the main thoroughfare of Skullport, but only once was he pulled sharply across, his hood up to hide his blindfold. He listened intently to everything around him; the snorting of some stabled rothé – the livestock native to the Underdark –, the clack and scrape of a carpenter and a butcher working in their neighbouring shops, the whispering wings of the fairies and imps overheard carrying messages for their masters. None of it brought Mae'rillar to a reliable conclusion; it seemed to him that the two priestesses were leading him on an aimless route through town, until he heard the murmur of water by his side and was bundled into a narrow-sided rowing boat. He had not heard the din of the quayside, and he felt the angle of the boat with his arm as it was pushed off from its mooring. North east…what lay north east of Skullport, close enough for two priestesses to fearlessly hold a well-trained Drow warrior captive, along with their human ward?

Mae'rillar was still digging through his memories, thinking through all of the lessons he could recall from his compulsory years in Sorcere, the wizards' academy of Menzoberranzan, when the boat scraped jarringly over dry ground. No one had ever told him what lay north east of Skullport, except for Ched Nasad, the other major Drow city. But surely that was not their destination? It lays leagues away.

Once more he felt his captors drag him to his feet, heard the high, nervous whispering of the boy with them and their reassuring voices. That ambience sent an uncomfortable jolt through him, a pang that he hardly expected: he could not recall a time when ever he had heard a child treated so kindly. He thought of vicious Matron Kilath with her three-headed snake whip, and of his father, the weapon master of the house, with his preference for training with bladed weapons over blunted ones.

Abruptly Mae'rillar's senses were once more assaulted by the noise of busy settlement, an unnerving change after their walk from the boat through utter stillness. _This place must be enchanted and well warded._ That explained why Sorcere had neglected to educate him. He began to wish he had run when he had better chances. He doubted a place like this would _ransom _him. His confusion mounted as they walked more briskly, stepping over smooth, neatly paved ground to the tune of the high laughter of children and the calls of merchants selling their wares. He was pulled to a stop at the beginning of a flight of stairs, feeling the bottom step graze against his booted ankle before he could twist aside. The priestesses conversed briefly, too hushed to hear properly, and then only one hand held his arm as his remaining captor dragged him painfully up the steep stairway.

"What is this?" a male voice demanded in a tone that would have had him scourged for a week in House Kilath, "You have brought a spider-worshipper here? How _dare _you risk our safety?"

"Our Lady said he would save us, and he did. She told me to bring him here, if it was possible. He has not borne witness to the path we took," the priestess tugged sharply at Mae'rillar's blindfold, and the rough treatment sent a jolt of fiery pain through his injured arm. A wave of sickness tightened in his stomach and, to his own surprise, he swayed to his knees, retching.

"She is not my Lady, Zerith," the male sounded disgusted, but seemed to have relented for the priestess was permitted to drag Mae'rillar back to his feet and through a groaning stone doorway, pausing to relieve him of his weapons.

He was only led for a few more paces – just long enough for the doors to slam behind him –, clutching at his arm and still blind to his surroundings, before Zerith released her hold on him, allowing him to slump once more to his knees, groaning. In the cool, still silence that followed Mae'rillar imagined a hundred crossbows trained his way, or perhaps an axe or sword poised over his neck. He did not expect a fingertip to press beneath his chin, tilting his head up as if to meet this stranger's eyes. Unable to see, still he gasped as warm, healing magic spread through his arm, pushing away the feverishness that had crept over him along the walk from the boat, and replacing the burning in his skin with a dull ache more akin to a bruise.

"We are grateful to you for your kindness," a strangely accented voice promised at his ear, as his healer leaned forward, hair brushing against his cheek as she unfastened the blindfold and revealed herself to him.

From her voice alone, Mae'rillar had not expected the one who knelt before him to be a Drow, but Drow she was, with the same combination of ebon skin and pale hair as he did. Her features were not as sharp as was more common among their kin, however, and she lacked the lines of anger that were to be expected among the aggressive priestesses of his homeland.

She smiled at him as he blinked at her, his eyes adjusting to the dimly lit chamber. Overtaken in waves of confusion and surprise, Mae'rillar flinched away as her hands curved around his arms, expecting some kind of retribution, but she simply helped him to his feet, still smiling, and stepped back away from him onto the large curving stairway that dominated the chamber. For a moment he was dazzled by the strangeness of the place, of her unthreatening – even trusting – stance, but he was a trained warrior and he surveyed his surroundings with a practiced focus.

The hall was large and circular, awash in silvery light which filtered down from a central shaft set in the domed ceiling, the grey stone of which had been decorated with silver outlines of surface-world animals, along with a crescent shape followed by a spray of glittering gems. The young Drow warrior recognised that at least as Selûne and her tears, the moon of the lands above. Contrary to his expectation, the balconies set in the joining of the walls and dome were not peopled by armed aggressors; they were utterly empty, just like the floor upon which he stood. The doorway behind him was barred with iron and made of impressively heavy-looking stone, lined with silver, and it hummed with ominously strong magic. The only other possible exit stood closed as well, and though it looked less intimidating it likely led further into this unknown building.

The priestess was still standing on the last step of the central stairway, swathed in the silvery glow filtering down from the shaft above. The altar behind her was too high to see clearly, but whatever stood within its central dish caught the light and refracted it upwards into a spiral of colourful illumination almost too bright for Mae'rillar's sensitive Drow sight. It did not silhouette his mysterious benefactor as one might have expected; rather, she seemed to glow in that light, and he caught his treacherous breath. When his hands moved automatically for his emptied sword belt and his gaze swept the room once more for enemies, attempting to compensate for his more positive natural responses, she still did not move.

"You trust us as little as my people trust you," the Drow priestess before him noted softly, and at last his eyes were drawn back to her, "But the priestesses owe you their lives, as does our fosterson."

"Your _fosterson_? The human boy?" Mae'rillar could not avoid his incredulous tone. The idea was…ludicrous to him, "What place is this? And what do you intend to do with me?" But for a moment, she just smiled, and there was no malice in her sapphire eyes, no sinister twist to her shapely lips.

As his posture relaxed a little she stepped back down from her place with one graceful gesture to indicate that she was indeed unarmed, and Mae'rillar beheld that she was tall for their kin – almost as tall as he was. Her hair, falling in lustrous white curls to her hips, was woven with silver threads and shimmered iridescent in the soft light; her smile now was more mischievous than her serene voice had led him to expect. All but against his will, his eyes drifted and he saw that she wore a thin lilac dress, its distractingly wide neckline a little askew, leaving one smooth ebony shoulder bare. No weapons were visible upon her narrow silver belt, nor in her hands. She did not even wear a symbol of her faith; a faith which had lent her the power to heal his wound with a spell full of warmth and peace. From that alone Mae'rillar knew she was not a follower of Lolth, the goddess to whom his mother and all the people of his home city prayed.

"You need not fear me, warrior. I see the truth, and I see it with hope though there is much to come that must be endured. We are in Lith My'athar, an outpost of Eilistraee not far from the Promenade of the Dark Maiden," she gestured up at the ceiling above them, looking away from him with disarming trust, "Ours is the faith of song and dance beneath the stars," when her eyes met his again they held such _joy_ that Mae'rillar felt his traitorous heart jolt just a little.

"And your intentions with me? You said yourself that I saved your priestesses and the boy. You can see that I know nothing of Lith My'athar or the…Promenade of the Dark Maiden," though in truth the latter destination held some familiarity to Mae'rillar, he preferred not to admit to it, "And I doubt we can offer each other anything more. I thank you for your healing, but I must be gone from this place."

"You truly mean your thanks," the priestess noted softly, her lips quirking and her eyebrow raising in curiosity, "You belong among 'your people' no more than I do."

Unexpectedly she stepped forward, her eyes holding his as her hand brushed against his cheek. Sucking in his breath, Mae'rillar flinched away from her touch but did not pull away entirely, for her eyes still held him and his heart was hammering in his chest.

"You will be returned safe and whole to Skullport," she agreed, dropping her hand to her side once more, half-turning away before a crooked, knowing smile crossed her face and lit up her eyes, "But you will not forget this place."

* * *

><p><strong>Somewhere near Skullport,<strong>

**Undermountain-Underdark Border**

**1362 DR, Year of the Helm,**

**Eleasis 'Highsun'**

It was turning into a day and a night of too many unanswered questions. Mae'rillar's thoughts were still spinning as he was led, blindfolded once more, through the quietened streets of Lith My'athar; though the Underdark dwelt ever in darkness, its inhabitants still moved to a regimented system of 'day' and 'night'. He remained blinded along the walk to the boat, and as his captors rowed back across the body of water around Skullport. He felt in no hurry to strike up conversation, and speculation was his sole companion.

The cursed medallion weighed heavily in his thoughts. He had not dared to throw it aside; Matron Kilath had demanded its delivery, after all. Regardless, its treacherous nature, and that of its courier, only strengthened his curiosity. He could not begin to fathom the significance of the unfamiliar necromantic ritual to which he had been subjected, but the teleportation his touch upon the offending blade had caused could hardly have been accidental. It seemed more than a little convenient that it had sent him to the priestesses and boy, especially as they had said that their 'Lady' had known Mae'rillar would help them. Yet…he found it hard to believe that such agonising wizardry was connected to the gentle warmth of the beautiful priestess's healing magic. Instead her words would not leave his thoughts; Eilistraee, Lith My'athar…the trust in her deep blue eyes…

His blindfold was removed as his captors, a pair of heavily armoured male Drow, rowed their boat up to a small, abandoned jetty. Mae'rillar was bundled wordlessly onto the platform and left without ceremony; he did not linger to watch them disappear into the gloom cast by the city's witchlights. Instead the young warrior pulled up his hood, made his way around the deserted warehouse by which he found himself, and slipped into the night-time streets of Skullport. The city was free of its earlier claustrophobic bustle but it was hardly deserted; brothels overflowed with rowdy, drunken debauchery, competing with the numerous taverns for dominance on the gloomy streets. Thieves and thugs darted among the backalleys; Mae'rillar had to employ some significant dexterity, despite his weary limbs, to avoid getting caught up in the beginnings of one particularly violent looking fight. He kept himself focused upon making his way to the section of the docks at which he and his earlier companions had arrived before acquiring the medallion. He sincerely doubted that any would have waited for him, but he also knew that there were a number of rowing boats tied up there, any one of which would most likely only be missed long after he had made his exit.

Mae'rillar's destination was a rickety boathouse, constructed from surface-world wood which had begun to moulder in the damp air of Skullport, well away from the busier streets of the city and sheltered behind a suspiciously unpopular bakery. From the smell emanating out of the kitchen door, it appeared the owners dredged their food from the murky waters around Skullport. Mae'rillar curled his lip at the thought – he doubted even his mother's half-starved Orc slaves would favour such food.

As the Drow slipped unseen into the boathouse, his passing inaudible amongst the creaking of the gently rocking boats within, his sneer quickly turned to a satisfied smile as his eyes adjusted to their favoured infravision, unlit as this boathouse was. He was alone, his quarry utterly unguarded as he had suspected, but nonetheless he worked quickly to unwind the rope mooring the nearest boat and to slip inside the narrow vessel, pushing on the oars with as much force as his need for silence would permit. In truth it was a dangerous position to be a lone Drow on the streets of treacherous Skullport. He did not bear the insignia of his mother's house, but that was perhaps all the more suspicious to any potential enemies of hers – for it hinted at the clandestine motivations behind his quest. His business had been to stay out of sight, and to evade capture at all costs if noticed.

Mae'rillar was familiar with the path he must take through the water, keeping the city close to his right in order to avoid the unforgiving blue illumination of the witchlights which never dulled during the day or night. Once he had rounded the rocky cliff-face ahead, moving out of sight of the city and towards a narrow channel which he knew to be swarming with his mother's soldiers, Mae'rillar was far from breathing a sigh of relief. He may have escaped the dangers of Skullport, but he now moved to meet with his sister Kirthel, the unforgiving leader of this mission for their mother. True, she dare not kill him given his success, but he would have much to explain about his absence, and her superior attitude always filled him with a gut-wrenching need to bury a dagger in her throat. The memory of her free use of her two-headed snake whip made his back burn. When the thought of violence was on his sister's mind, there was nothing one could do to sway her out of it, save for fear of her mother. Breathing deeply, Mae'rillar steeled his rebellious mind, slowing his movement through the water to buy himself a little time, closing his eyes…and seeing a flash of deep blue. _You belong among 'your people' no more than I do._

"You are late, brother," Kirthel's voice cut through the darkness as Mae'rillar's boat slid into the narrow tunnel ahead, shattering the peaceful whisper of water against stone.

"Yet I return with the item our mother requires, sister," he responded sharply before he could stop himself, raising his eyes to see his youngest sister standing upon the lip of the path ahead, a habitual frown deepening upon her thin, angular face. Her hands flexed upon the bone handle of her snake whip, where the enchanted heads of the weapon coiled around her wrist, hissing and tasting the air with flickering tongues.

"The warriors who returned told me of the necromancer's magic," Kirthel's eyes narrowed, glittering a brilliant crimson in the darkness as she nodded behind herself, her braids of white hair twisting about her shoulders with the same sinuousness as the snakes twisting about her arm, "I would hear what you have to say of these events. Were I not to know better, your lateness would seem more than a little suspicious."

"Hurtful words," Mae'rillar raised his eyebrows, unable to hold back the sarcasm in his tone and affected his most unconvincingly innocent expression, watching his sister carefully even as he pulled himself from the boat, the Kilath soldiers lining the tunnel walls parting to let him pass, "But as it happens I have learned much tonight, and my tale is one for our matron's ears first. What would she think of us, discussing such matters behind her back…so to speak?"

Mae'rillar had to conceal his smile when his sister's expression twisted. Her snakes snapped at him, and he was careful to stop at a safe distance. His sister was their mother's least trusted daughter, and they both knew it. She was _expected _to scheme against her mother in Drow society, but her lack of subtlety had always put her in a dangerous position in their house. Even Mae'rillar could whisper a few words to their mother and worsen her standing if she made him speak of his time in Lith My'athar, and she feared that. In truth, her resultant vengeance would probably make such a move on his part more costly than it was worth, but he enjoyed his small moments of success against his sisters. Kirthel just happened to be the easiest target.

"Then you shall tell her presently," Kirthel held out a hand, and Mae'rillar pointedly emptied the medallion on to her palm. He had no intention of touching it again, and looked hopefully for a flinch, or a look of horror, but as her spidery fingers closed around the heavy, cold metal, her thin lips were curved in a triumphant smile.

"We return to Menzoberranzan immediately?" Mae'rillar struggled to conceal his disappointment. He was weary in body and mind. He would have liked to sleep at least a little – and he felt a rush of…something (was it hope?) at the thought that he might well dream of the beautiful priestess of Eilistraee who had given him mercy.

"To Menzoberranzan? No," Kirthel smirked, clearly enjoying his ignorance, "House Kilath has moved on from the petty squabbles of that city. Our mother's intentions are altogether more…ambitious."

* * *

><p><strong>Skullport,<strong>

**Undermountain-Underdark Border**

**1375 DR, Year of Risen Elfkin,**

**Alturiak 'The Claw of Winter'**

The bedroom was small and dark, save for the gentle blue of the witchlights filtering in through the cracked shutters. It was barely enough light for Sharwyn to see by, though she could just about make out the shapes of the two beds, one at each end of the room, and the table between them with its unlit candle. Mae'rillar had brushed past her as she lingered in the doorway waiting for her eyes to adjust, his Drow sight just as suited to the darkness as it had been when first they had met, when he had never seen the sun of the world above.

"Surely you brought the circlet?" Mae'rillar asked softly as he seated himself along the window seat, his eyes glinting with the red of infravision in the gloom, "You will need it when we leave this city…"

"Yes, yes," Sharwyn rolled her eyes as she moved to her bed, pulling off her boots before flopping onto her back with a groan, staring up at the play of faint blue light across the low, sloping ceiling, "Of course I did. Trust me, I know better than you how poorly I see in the dark. It's just…I'd rather not wear it until I absolutely have to."

"Always so vain."

Mae'rillar's laughter was low and genuine, but Sharwyn propped herself up on her elbows in time only to see him looking away from her, through one of the cracks in the shutters. Though she could not see him clearly, she could imagine the swift change in his expression.

"You worry for her; our Lady," Sharwyn noted softly, but he gave no response, "And I do as well. But we can't travel to the Promenade of the Dark Maiden without sleep."

"We will need to pass through the ruins," the Drow warrior told her at last as if she had never spoken, still not looking around, "I do not know another way, and if anything of what Nathyrra said is true then we must make haste. We will not have time to go around – we must pass through Old Lith My'athar."

"You still blame yourself for that, Mae'rillar?" Sharwyn sighed as noisily as she could, all the better to show her frustration, "It's not like you to wallow. You saved her…and you saved me. Don't forget that."

"I do not blame myself for it, no. I have no interest in lessening Matron Kilath's culpability," even after all those years, there was still a palpable sense of bitter satisfaction behind those words of his, "But as for the Seer…I knew her in the days of Old Lith My'athar. I saw her as she was. You knew her as the Seer, as our Lady, and you knew Lith My'athar as it was in_ those_ days, far away from the Promenade."

"Do you regret leaving?" Sharwyn asked, lying back again and staring up at the ceiling.

"No," Mae'rillar's voice was barely audible, just a breath, and when Sharwyn twisted onto her side to look at him staring back at her, he shifted on the window seat, drawing one knee up to his chest, his hand on his sword hilt and his eyes back on the street below, "Get some sleep, Sharwyn." _But be on your guard._

Trusting in her old friend's protective qualities, the bard hummed a sleepy reply and turned over, closing her weary eyes. But she kept her harp by her pillow, and her sword hilt in her hand as she drifted to sleep…

"Sharwyn."

The whisper that woke her was urgent and familiar, the gloved hand that closed around her wrist was gentle as its pressure stayed the swing of the sword she held long enough to give her fogged thoughts the few seconds they needed to catch up with reality. Turning onto her back, the bard saw Mae'rillar leaning over her, and even after the better part of a decade she still felt her heart stutter at the sight of him.

At some point he had opened the shutters, perhaps in an attempt to awaken her more subtly, and now the pale blue light from the streets was streaming in to the little bedroom, casting shadows below his high cheekbones, highlighting the regularity of his ebon-skinned features. There was a perceptive seriousness in his pale hazel eyes as he started to lean back, his thin shirt shifting just enough to show the black links of Drow mail he wore beneath, and Sharwyn watched with curiosity as he raised her plain silver circlet and placed it gently upon her head. Instantly the item's magic worked upon her sight and the shadows in the room dissipated. Seeing her wince, Mae'rillar raised a white eyebrow and stepped back.

"You look beautiful," he promised as Sharwyn sat up, readjusting the heavy circlet in the vain hope of making it look more flattering; when she glared at him he pointed at the window and moved to shoulder his pack, "We need to leave. We were being watched in the dining hall last night and if they mean to follow us, I would meet them on ground of our choosing."


	4. A Lord of the Hells

**So just a quick reminder: 1362 is Hordes of the Underdark time, 1375 is the return to the Underdark narrative.  
><strong>

**Reviews always welcome and greatly appreciated. ;)**

* * *

><p><strong>House Kilath,<strong>

**The Underdark**

**1362 DR, Year of the Helm,**

**Eleasis 'Highsun'**

Matron Kilath's new home was no makeshift settlement, nor was it a subtly constructed place in which to hide. By the time Kirthel brought Mae'rillar and their companions to the complex of graven stone halls amongst intertwined caves and glass spires decorated with the shimmering lights of Faerie Fire, this new home away from the rest of Drow civilisation was a bustling fortress.

Standing within an expansive cavern by a clear pool which was lit from deep within by glowing Underdark plant-life, the complex swarmed with well-armed soldiers only half-visible in the light and only half-visible with infravision due to their enchanted armour. Rothé milled within a large pen, evidently brought with their Drow masters to help feed a large number over a long period, and Mae'rillar had to fight the urge to drop his jaw a little in shock. It would not do to show such surprise and awe in front of Kirthel, or the conspiring soldiers serving them.

As they reached the largest of the buildings ahead – a palace adorned with unsightly ridges of black metal – Kirthel halted before the enormous front gates to shoo their travelling companions away. Echoing Mae'rillar's own confused curiosity they did not immediately move to do her bidding, watching the siblings with suspicious red eyes. A curse from Kirthel and a lash of her snake whip sped them on their way. Only then did the doors before them grind slowly open, their silver cobweb patterning glinting in shades of reflected red and purple from the play of Faerie Fire across the many spires around the complex.

A plain, broad passageway ending in an equally unadorned archway was revealed beyond, the Orc slaves within grunting with effort to pull the heavy doors open to their widest points. Two familiar –and most unwelcome – figures awaited within. A quick glance at Kirthel showed the downward turn of her mouth at the sight of Querthra – their formidable eldest sister – and Firzin, Mae'rillar's less-than-loving father, the vicious weapon master of Matron Kilath's household.

"I had not expected to see you so soon upon my return, Sister," Kirthel gritted out through clenched teeth. Kirthel had never been one to truly hide her anger, and her unsubtle glare simply brought a tight smile to Querthra's thin lips.

"Mother would have us all here to witness such an important day for our House," Querthra replied smoothly, stepping aside with false courtesy to allow her sister to pass, though the hissing of her three-headed snake whip in response to Kirthel's proximity was more telling of the truth.

The sisters moved on without a second glance at Mae'rillar. Strongly doubting that Querthra knew much more than he or Kirthel, he made to follow only to feel Firzin's hard grip on his arm. Stilling immediately, the younger warrior fought down a wave of anger, slowly turning his gaze to meet his father's as the door rumbled shut behind them.

Firzin was smaller than his son, but unusually heavily muscled for a male of their kind, his body covered in barely-disguised blades, and his narrowed eyes shone red even without the glow of infravision. There was very little to suggest any relation between the two, except for the unusual blonde tint to the expected white of their hair. It was no great comfort to Mae'rillar that he had inherited more of his mother's appearance, even when his father was gripping his arm so tightly, glaring into his eyes with unveiled threat.

"You should watch yourself, Mae'rillar," the older Drow warned, the harsh tones of their native language only emphasising his underlying aggression, "Remember it is because you are _expendable_ that the Matron sends you on these…errands. The moment you forget," a wicked grin flashed across his scarred face, and his hand moved to his sword hilt, "I will make sure you remember it."

There was desperation hidden behind Firzin's words. His father had been the uncontested Weapon Master of House Kilath for all of Mae'rillar's fifty years of life. It was a noteworthy span of service, especially for a Weapon Master of a lower house like Kilath, comparable to the more storied houses of Menzoberranzan like Do'Urden or Baenre. As Matron Kilath's only living warrior son, who had fought his way to the top of Melee Magthere and bested the offspring of notable lineages, Mae'rillar was a threat. Even more painfully for Firzin, he _enjoyed _being a threat, and now looked upon his father coldly as he continued to fight back his anger.

"I could never forget your…determination…in reminding me of my place," Mae'rillar gritted out, putting as much threat behind his words as his father had and maybe some more besides – for he had the memory of the whip across his back and his father the memory but of the handle against his palm.

Pulling free sharply from Firzin's grasp, he moved for the archway ahead as his sisters had before him. Though he heard his father's angry hiss, he knew not even the vengeful Weapon Master would strike at him there, just footsteps from their Matron's meeting hall. His satisfaction at so riling his father was short lived, however, for the colossal room in which he found himself beyond the archway sent his thoughts spiralling as dizzyingly as the twisting rise of the great glass tower above it, as displayed through the clear domed roof arching overhead.

With its large central dais, awash in the writhing lights of Faerie Fire filtering down through the crystal tower above, there was a strange symmetry between this place and the hall dedicated to Eilistraee in Lith My'athar. Just as surface world animals and plants had decorated the roof of that chamber, so did black cobwebs and a central spider emblazon the glass dome of his mother's hall.

Where an altar had rested to catch the light in Lith My'athar, a throne carved from glittering white and purple quartz stood at the top of this central dais – and upon it reclined his mother, dark and slender, resplendent in a deep purple dress shimmering with black gems. Black mithral spiders glinted along each twist of her thick white hair, plaited over her shoulder and hanging to her hip. Her six-headed snake whip writhed and hissed where it waited draped across the top step of the dais, its black bone handle held deceptively loosely in her long, thin fingers. Upon such a seat, in a hall so dauntingly vast and grand, a tall, elaborate crown of polished obsidian and amethyst upon her head, she looked more of a queen than a Matron of a minor house newly defected from Menzoberranzan.

Dark-elf soldiers stood in an ominous semi-circle along the far wall, and upon the balcony arcing above them there waited six red-robed Drow females, adorned in symbols which Mae'rillar vaguely remembered from his lessons in the wizards' academy of Menzoberranzan, Sorcere. These were the sigils of the Infernal realm; of the Nine Hells themselves. The sight of them sent a shiver up his spine, a feeling almost as chilling as that which filled him when he met his mother's large amber eyes, just a few shades lighter than his own, and saw the wicked smile written across her deceptively beautiful face. She had recognised his fear, and it pleased her to see him so afraid. As her glance swept past Firzin – who lingered behind Mae'rillar – to Querthra and Kirthel beside him, the young warrior recognised that for all their varying degrees of composure, his mother knew that behind their facades they all felt equal trepidation at the sight of their matron so fearsomely defended and impressively adorned.

Mae'rillar had known his mother's ambition was boundless, but he had at least always found some comfort in the idea that, as the leader of the fiftieth house of Menzoberranzan, she would always be shackled by the limitations of her inheritance. It filled him with dread to see her so opulent, with such manpower at her disposal that she could command the construction of this complex. Her smile widened when she saw his eyebrows raise in understanding. _Conquest. Of course._ Somehow, she had found the backing to fuel her dreams of conquest.

At last the rest of her children stepped up to join Mae'rillar at the foot of the steps to the dais; along with Querthra and Kirthel there were two more daughters and her youngest son, the unsettlingly quiet mage Varel who was only newly returned from Sorcere. Only once all of her offspring waited before her did Matron Kilath stand to her full, long-limbed height.

"You are afraid," Matron Kilath noted, her voice resounding easily in the large hall though she had not raised it, "Though some of you would have me think otherwise," her amber gaze flashed from Querthra to Kirthel, pointedly skipping over Firzin before settling knowingly upon Mae'rillar and lingering upon him as she continued, as if watching his steady comprehension, "You would do well to admit your fear of what I can do for this house, and to those who stand against me. I have made allegiances with those who hold power beyond the means of mortals…which you shall soon observe."

Matron Kilath gestured wordlessly to Kirthel, barely giving her a cursory glance as her youngest daughter approached up the steps to hand the sinister medallion to her mother. Momentarily Mae'rillar wondered if he should warn her of its earlier curse, but thought better of it. Better that Kirthel take the blame…and he found himself curious as to how his mother would react to being overcome by such an object. As it was, Matron Kilath simply took the object with a calm smile, the rubies glinting faintly in the dim glow of Faerie Fire, and waved her daughter away.

"I have already broken away from the petty squabbling of Menzoberranzan, and I have bent several of the city's houses to my will," there was a cold satisfaction in her tone as she spoke, toying with the strange object in her grasp with disturbing nonchalance, "And I have brought the Illithids of this region to our cause, among others who know it would be unwise to stand against us. And now, with this token I shall prove to you why it is my right…and that it is my purpose… to conquer the Underdark for our House, and why all of the Realms will learn to fear _us _as they should."

Looking to his siblings, Mae'rillar saw his sisters and his brother were beginning to smile as their mother explained her plan of conquest. As she stood there by her throne in such a vast fortress, a complex teeming with well-armed soldiers, and speaking of allegiance with the Illithids and the other creatures of the Underdark, it seemed hard to disagree with Matron Kilath. But Mae'rillar could find no cause to smile even as his siblings did so beside him. He had felt the necromantic magic of the creature who gave them that medallion which his mother now held aloft, and he felt only a sweeping chill of dread when his mother turned to face the red-robed priestesses upon the balcony. The medallion roared into bright flame, which apparently caused no discomfort to Matron Kilath.

A darkness fell which not even infravision could penetrate, but through it Mae'rillar could hear his mother's voice rising over the chants of the red-robed priestesses, all uttering a prayer in a language which made his skin crawl. Eventually, the grinding of stone drowned out all other sound and a dull red glow spread through the magically darkened room. Mae'rillar stumbled back along with his siblings, seeing varying degrees of fear and shock on their faces as the ground shook and flame rose from the floor between Matron Kilath's pedestal and the priestess's balcony. From that flame, only half-seen from around the high pedestal, there rose a creature beyond anything Mae'rillar could have expected – or even imagined.

A pair of fiery wings spread momentarily outwards as if in flight, and the Devil from which they sprouted stood from the obscured portal. Humanoid in shape, with the sharp, regular features of an Elvish man, but with the glittering black eyes and cracked, red skin of the Nine Hells, he rose to tower almost up to the balcony, his black-clad form vast and muscular, the staff he held crackling audibly with malicious magic. His gaze, altogether too pointed and intelligent, fell immediately upon Matron Kilath, who was only just lowering the medallion to meet her newest servant's gaze. A smile spread across his face at the sight of her, a look of victory if ever Mae'rillar saw one. It made the young Drow shudder, rooted to his place now as he took in the scene, the impenetrable darkness finally lifting from all corners of the room.

"Mistress," the Devil intoned pleasantly, taking half a step forward before coming up against some kind of unseen barrier. Tendrils of magic spread from the hands of the still-chanting priestesses above him, weaving mighty chains into the air which coiled around his massive shoulders and forced him to stagger back until they held him fast to the wall. He looked at the new constraints as if stricken by some particularly hurtful insult, and then back up to Matron Kilath, "These bonds were hardly necessary, surely?" There was palpable mockery in his words.

"I would be a fool to trust you – Mephistopheles, Prince of Cania," Matron Kilath's voice shook with rage, but her stance was unreadable from behind. Even her snake whip was placid at her feet, "You are mine to command, and you will act as we discussed."

They watched each other for a wary moment before Matron Kilath turned once more to face her children, advancing but a few more steps towards them. Her amber eyes shone with her wicked glee, flickering back and forth from the red of infravision as her sight adjusted to the new lighting conditions. Again she held aloft the flickering medallion, and her voice commanded the undivided attention of all those in the hall.

"You see now the true power that I wield. I have summoned the mighty Mephistopheles, a Lord of the Nine Hells and the Prince of Cania, the Eighth Hell," she lowered her voice, and gestured to the ground before them, "Kneel before your Valsharess."

"Valsharess!" the chorus spread like a wave across those gathered in the room, and one by one they all knelt. Firzin was the first to defer, of course, even before the red priestesses, while Varel and the younger daughters followed suit with almost as much painful sycophancy. At last Querthra complied, and Mae'rillar was quick to follow her – but he could not bring himself to utter that title, and he noted his mother's expression flickered at that, the Devil behind her grinning just a little more broadly.

"Mae'rillar," his mother's tone was sharp, her lip curling in a sneer as she regarded him, "I hear that you have some…information for this house," she nodded towards Kirthel, who failed to hide her smirk. Of course his youngest sister would have told her first, while Firzin kept him waiting!

"Yes…Valsharess," Mae'rillar rose to his feet at her gesture, the ancient title bitter on his tongue. It was a taboo word in Menzoberranzan, for it carried all the weight of 'tyrant', 'warlord' and 'queen'. No Drow house wanted its power to be drowned out by the whims of an empress, but that was how she had now chosen to be seen.

"Then speak, fool!" his mother snapped, and her eyes flashed with triumph when she saw rage flicker across his face. She always did like to push him to the limits of his temper, "The rest of you…out."

Mae'rillar watched his siblings leave, Kirthel pointedly pushing past him as she went – she had clearly hoped their mother would allow her to stay, and it was certainly unprecedented that a simple Drow male would be held behind to speak in confidence without his sisters being present to hear. Firzin lingered at the door, glaring, but could not muster the courage to stay too long. The threat in his eyes had been enough.

Thus it was that with Mephistopheles looking on with poorly disguised interest and Matron Kilath descending the stairs from her throne, Mae'rillar explained all that had happened in Skullport. His mother's smile grew as he told her of the unfamiliar settlement of Lith My'athar, but the look did not reach her eyes. He neglected to mention the boy who he had indirectly saved, or the kindly priestess who appeared to have been some kind of leader among those followers of Eilistraee. He left any mention of the necromantic magic he had suffered for the acquisition of the medallion until last, for he had assumed that all of these events were connected. Why else had he been teleported to the fight between the assassins and the two priestesses of Eilistraee? But when he said as much, Matron Kilath threw back her head and laughed.

"Oh, how naïve!" she fairly cackled then, looked once more upon her son, and a cold stab shot through his heart. He had _assumed _that there was some kind of warning intended for the Drow of Menzoberranzan behind the actions of the Eilistraee worshippers, and now his mother's expression told him otherwise, "There was no 'curse' upon the medallion, merely an enchantment to hold you disabled for the appropriate time, and the cut of the courier's knife came at my request. Your meeting with the priestesses of Eilistraee was pure coincidence, a side effect of necessary magic which inadvertently teleported you to their _aid_," her words were dripping with scorn as she paced before him across the bottom step of her pedestal, always careful to tower over those who served her, "I required a little blood to seal the pact meant to summon Mephistopheles," she gestured to the prince of Hell and he inclined his head, altogether too pleased to be a captive, "Yours came easily. And as for the settlement, this…Lith My'athar…they shall be a lesson to the rest of the Underdark that the only way to survive my power is to obey me."

Her smile only grew as Mae'rillar blanched, as if daring him to act upon the rage that swelled within him. The necromancy had been her doing! He should have known. He should have expected, or at least suspected, that his apparent leadership of the quest in Kirthel's stead could have come to no good. He was _male_; he was _expendable_ to her, as Firzin had told him. But she was his Matron Mother, a power great enough to summon a Prince of the Nine Hells – a Devil currently watching him with an amused smirk.

Fighting his rage, Mae'rillar forced himself to meet his mother's eyes, those eyes just a shade closer to sulphurous yellow than his own. He swallowed his curses, though she watched him with that same satisfied, knowing look which meant she might as well have heard them all the same.

"Y-you mean to attack Lith My'Athar?" his voice came out hoarse, to his own surprise. He knew the stab of cold which jolted through his now pounding heart for what it was: horror, guilt perhaps. No one had ever shown him kindness…and now…

"I do not mean merely to attack Lith My'Athar," Matron Kilath told him, taking a slow step forward, brushing the back of one cool, slender hand across his cheek, running a strand of his hair between finger and thumb until it caught the dim light of a distant candle, glinting almost golden. It was all he could do not to flinch away from her touch, feeling the twist of the snake heads of her whip against his arm, an unsubtle threat of what would happen to him should he ever voice those quelled curses, "I intend to destroy them, my _son_."

"A meagre settlement like that?" Mae'rillar forced incredulity rather than hatred into his tone, his skin crawling at her touch, "Do you not wish to move against a more…worthy settlement? Menzoberranzan, or Skullport perhaps?"

For a moment Matron Kilath simply stared at him, and upon hearing the hissing of her snakes he tensed, fearing he had yet again overstepped his place and attempted to prepare for his punishment. But eventually Matron Kilath smiled slowly.

"In time," she agreed at last, glancing pointedly toward Mephistopheles, who inclined his head in silent and unexplained understanding, "But I have heard tell of these…Eilistraee heretics, and of their hidden city, Lith My'athar. They hold a passageway to the surface world within their temple, so I have been told. It leads to the very heart of the human city of Waterdeep," something like mania flashed across her eyes, "If I am to hold the Underdark I must first control its most…profitable exits."

"…Valsharess," Mae'rillar gritted out, flinching away instinctively when one of the snakes began to coil slowly around his forearm, much to his mother's amusement, "May Lady Lolth guide you to victory, in her name."

"Oh, indeed," Matron Kilath inclined her head, her look altogether too pleased, waving a hand to dismiss her son, "Your advice has been invaluable, but I doubt your heart. You could be the greatest Weapon Master of this house's history, but I do so fear that you have a weak stomach."

Her words cracked like a whip against his back, full of menace as he had begun to turn away.

"I would have you with my army in this coming battle," she continued, "To prove that you are not the coward I fear. Act admirably, and you will be my Weapon Master. Firzin is a tiresome beast at the best of times, and I will have the best for House Kilath. If you return successful, I will give you your deserved position, and your father will try to kill you. Slay him with Lolth's blessings, my son, and honour will be yours. But first, you must oversee the destruction of Lith My'Athar."

* * *

><p><strong>Skullport and Old Lith My'Athar<strong>

**Undermountain-Underdark Border**

**1375 DR, Year of Risen Elfkin,**

**Alturiak 'The Claw of Winter'**

"I don't see them," Sharwyn hissed into Mae'rillar's ear as they rushed through Skullport's narrowest, most dizzyingly winding streets.

The Drow did not look round, his expression fixed into a frown of concentration, his gloved hand firmly but not painfully gripping her upper arm. They had not lingered at the inn after he had awoken her. Instead they had crept down the stairs – which had seemed silent and peaceful enough to the human woman – and out through the kitchens, through a wooden door which had looked remarkably new in its old, mouldering frame. Mae'rillar had hesitated as they stepped out into a small back yard full of kegs of ale, a little boat moored nearby where the lake had been permitted a path through the buildings ahead. It had been just a moment, a flash of recognition in his eyes, before he had stooped to pick the enormous lock on the gate beside them; its chain had slid into his palm, unclasped, just as readily as one held by a less imposing padlock. After that their pace had not relented.

Sharwyn could hardly believe their pursuers could still be following them; surely they must have been lost amongst the many other figures pacing the streets at this hour? It was not an unusual thing, a pair of shifty travellers cloaked and hooded against recognition here in Skullport, and this city was no more susceptible to the hour of the day than anywhere else in the Underdark no matter its clock tower bells. And if that had not been enough, Mae'rillar had insisted they hurry through these cramped, dirty backstreets. It was a tiring, disorientating march, and it might have made a less experienced adventurer more than a little jumpy. But Sharwyn had seen the hordes of the Underdark and the ice of Cania. She had her longsword, her bow and her harp. And she had Mae'rillar. Would-be attackers should fear _them_.

Such a thought only fuelled her confusion over her friend's haste and his determination not to meet the Duergar pursuing them in Skullport. Mae'rillar's anxiety was more unsettling than the threat of a potential attack.

"They are following us, do not doubt it," Mae'rillar promised, pulling Sharwyn with him sharply around the next corner, "Whether for bounty or sport I do not know – but we shall soon test their resolve."

The woman had to pull up short, faced as they were by the towering wall of stone which marked the end of Skullport's cavern environs. A gap in the rock waited ahead; barred by a warded gate it stood maybe three feet off the ground, some six feet high but not more. Valen would have had to stoop. The thought sent a pang through the woman's heart and she glanced uncomfortably towards Mae'rillar – but the Drow was already moving towards the gate, opening it without hesitation and gesturing sharply for her to go ahead. She knew those wards well; they had stood at the boundaries of Lith My'Athar's environs. In Waterdeep there might have been a sign up beside them that read 'no re-admittance; exit only'. There were only a few ways into Skullport, but many ways out.

"I take it we aren't returning then," the woman noted dryly as she pulled herself into the opening, peering into the void ahead and allowing her eyes to adjust to the lack of light with the aid of the magical circlet she wore, painting the darkness for her in shades of silver. It showed her that this tunnel stretched jaggedly ahead for only a short distance before branching off into three separate pathways; one taller and sloping steeply downwards, another smaller and inclining upwards, and the third turning sharply right, emanating an uncommonly nauseating stench.

"This way," Mae'rillar promised with the certainty only a Drow could possess in this environment, opting for the path down. Sharwyn still had enough wits about her to tell that this led north and east out of Skullport; to the Promenade of the Dark Maiden it would be, then. That was what Nathyrra's letter had begged of them, after all.

Mae'rillar led Sharwyn unrelentingly through the darkness. She had no way of telling how long they had been walking, though her legs ached wretchedly and her head was pounding from the constant threat of this place. With a less skilled guide than Mae'rillar it would have been impossible to get this far through the winding tunnels of the Underdark without stumbling upon some fatal trap or falling prey to something lurking in the gloom. With the Drow's competence came certainty…and with his absolute certainty came this wearying march.

Though she trusted Mae'rillar to guide her well through these twisted, jagged walls of stone and the eerie silence of the tunnels, with no way of knowing what might be around the next corner, their journey was wearing on her nerves. Even the distant drip of water or a rush of wind brought on by some distant exit to the surface sent her reeling into a battle stance, and her nerves were jangling from the constant pressure to maintain utter silence. Sharwyn had kept the presence of mind to wear the boots Nathyrra had gifted her those years ago when last she had been in the Underdark; enchanted to render her footsteps inaudible, they were invaluable to her in this place. But alas she could not avoid the creaking of her leather tunic, or the risk of scraping her scabbard against the stone walls. She could not match her companion's perfect silence.

When Mae'rillar stopped suddenly ahead of her, Sharwyn almost walked right into him. Even with the aid of her circlet, his dark clothes blended in with their surroundings well enough that she could often hardly make him out. He turned to meet her gaze just in time, eyes flashing bright white in the silvery rendering of her circlet. Had she removed the ornament those eyes would have been all she could have seen, two points of sharp crimson cutting through the utter dark.

"We will await them in the cavern beyond," Mae'rillar murmured, his voice barely audible to the woman. Had she been Drow, he would have used his people's sign language to avoid drawing attention to them in this place of shadowy threat, but such complicated gestures were beyond human dexterity and – even after months spent in the Underdark those years before – Sharwyn had never been able to follow the quick, intricate gestures. Gods save her, she had _tried_.

"Then we are not going to the Promenade?" Sharwyn could not hide the surprise in her tone, even whispering.

"No," Mae'rillar's smile with almost a grimace, "Though we are not far from that place."

"Nathyrra said she would be waiting there, that the Seer…"

"Yes, but the cavern ahead was once home to our Seer. I met her there, before she took her title. It is now abandoned, Old Lith My'Athar," he looked away as he spoke, sadness creeping into his tone as he gestured for Sharwyn to follow him, "There are wards in this place of which she has since told me. They will suffice in turning the odds more in our favour, once our pursuers reach us. Better that they never know the location of the Promenade, not even for the fleeting moments more that they shall live once they catch us. Come."

Old Lith My'Athar. Sharwyn had heard of this place, in passing. Many times Mae'rillar had spoken of its destruction with a sadness that the bard knew stemmed from guilt. She would have thought this would be the last place he would bring her, especially when threatened by these Duergar. Sharwyn and Mae'rillar together had the means to remove their threat without leaving Skullport, surely? But he knew this world better than her, and she was – quite literally – in no place to argue.

Thus it was that the bard followed Mae'rillar out of the tunnel and in to a large cavern, and never had she seen more beautiful ruination. Graven towers and sweeping houses – though broken and crumbling – where still a-glitter with artful clusters of quartz, the ceiling awash with stalactites sparkling in shafts of sunlight. The doorways were open and dark, and only shattered stone remained to show of the violence here. Anything of value had been taken and no life lingered in this place nor any hint of its passing. Not a single bone, nor scrap of cloth. A great domed temple of white stone rose proudly from the centre of the cavern upon a platform maybe fifty steps high, decorated with glittering gems and carved with arcane and holy words. Untouched by the violence around it, the building stood directly beneath the brightest shaft of sunlight and in this dark world it shone like the sun.

But for Mae'rillar's headlong progression towards the temple, Sharwyn might have lingered at the tunnel mouth, her heart pounding, her throat constricting, tears of awe in her eyes. What might it have once been like when life bustled there? She could see there were many homes clustered by the temple, now abandoned, and several watchtowers around the perimeter to protect from the threats of the Underdark. Two stone columns stood at the edge of a wide river, showing that once a jetty had stood there, perhaps linking this place to Skullport and the nearby Promenade of the Dark Maiden.

"We will wait in here," Mae'rillar informed Sharwyn as she caught up to him on the steps of the temple, "Help me with the gates."

The heavy stone doors were flung wide open, as it happened, but once inside the temple the Drow was determined that the gate be closed. It took both of them pulling on the levers within to wind those doors closed and once they were finished both travellers slumped to sit upon the smooth marble ground, panting.

"You Eilistraee worshippers like to make things pretty, don't you?" Sharwyn noted breathlessly, looking around this domed hall appreciatively. The sunlight from above filtered through an oculus, falling upon a central altar of plain grey stone, raised upon yet more steps. The ceiling was decorated with designs of animals and plants, along with the moon and its Tears. But for the scratches and scorch marks upon that roof, the bard might never have known that this place had been subjected to Drow violence along with the rest of the city. Its floor was smooth and polished as if yet tended, its semi-circular balcony still help up by proud fluted columns. The only other door in the room stood closed, with no sign of a break-in.

"There once stood a silver dish upon that altar, filled with water," Mae'rillar gestured to the centre of the room a little half-heartedly, also still trying to catch his breath after their struggle with the levers, "The sunlight was refracted in all the colours of the rainbow. It was here that I met the Seer, and she healed my wounds – I was her captive then, though briefly. She looked at me…" his expression grew thoughtful, his eyes staring ahead as if seeing something far away, "She looked at me with that smile of hers…"

"That one that says, 'I know what you want in life, but I won't tell you because there's more fun in keeping you guessing'?" Sharwyn suggested, and Mae'rillar glanced at her with a grin, in spite of the memories this place brought him.

"Yes, that look. And she told me that I would come back to this place. I never thought that it would be in violence," he scrubbed at his face with his gloved palms, and Sharwyn nudged him with her shoulder.

"No matter what you say, it's not your fault. I know you've said before you played a part in this place's destruction but I know you, and I know it can't be as simple as all that. The Seer survived, for one," Sharwyn pointed out, nudging him again when he did not respond, "How long do we have before our…friends…arrive?"

"An hour, maybe?" Mae'rillar made as if to say something more, but then paused, glancing at his bard companion in understanding, "You wish to know it all? After all this time?"

"We have a spare hour," Sharwyn shrugged, "And you're not half so well suited to that mysterious game as our Seer. Your attraction comes from other sources." She flashed him her best smile when he arched an eyebrow at her flippant tone.

"Very well," the Drow agreed after a moment, "What better place to tell this story than where it began."


End file.
